


Black Secrets

by DevinePhoenix



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: Black Dragon Tactician, Boss Battle, Dragon Tactician, Dragons, Eventual FE8 crossover, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Shapeshifting, Tactician Mark is everyone's nice nerdy brother, With fangs, dragon laguz, means he's basically dragon royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevinePhoenix/pseuds/DevinePhoenix
Summary: Mark is a frail and flimsy tactician, found nearly unconscious on the plains by Lyn. With short black hair, red eyes and a headband firmly tied around his head he is certainly, weird. Through their journey, he was able to keep his secret, right up until Nergal fell and three massive dragons clawed their way through the gate... Black Dragon!Tactician. Laguz Dragons used(FE9-10)





	1. The Tactician has Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> I was a very big fan of the GBA fire emblem games, FE7 was one of my first ones and I loved it to death, those characters stayed with me for a very long time. So even if I can't remember how it ended exactly (I took an educated guess and did a little research), this is what I ended up with.
> 
> For those who never played this game, the Tactician(something that made a huge comeback in the recent games) was a brown haired sprite with a green cloak. He was found by the first Lord in the game, fainted in the middle of the Sacaen plains, completely lost. That's the total amount of story that he gets, so It leaves it wide open for fans to make up.
> 
> My personal headcanon was that he could be a dragon since he canonically cannot fight at all (in such a bandit and war riddled country, that's really unlikely) and is pretty secretive.
> 
> It makes it more interesting because dragons were driven out of Elibe and defeated in their war against man. So he'd be a lone dragon stuck in Elibe after his race fled, until he bumps into the two ice dragon siblings, Nils and Ninian, on his adventure with the Lords...

**X**

**Units(12or is it 8?) with their legendary weapons:**

Eliwood (Durandal, broadsword that catches fire),

Lyn (Sol Katti, shiny katana),

Hector (Armads, BIG AXE),

Raven (Regal Blade, 2nd strongest sword),

Heath (Rex Hasta, strongest obtainable lance),

Canas (Gespenst, uber dark magic book),

Priscilla (Excalibur, magic wind blades that sushi everything),

Lucius (Aureola, ultimate holy nuke),

Rebecca (Reinfleche, legendary bow)

X

* * *

X

The entirety of the small army froze in awe and terror as they beheld the sight before them. The brutal and bloody battle in the ancient dragon shrine had just come to a halt. The foul monster behind the trials and suffering of many had just been felled, Nergal falling like a lifeless puppet to the ground.

There had only been a minute of shocked silence before Dragon's Gate had opened. Solid rock suddenly transformed into a swirling orange opening.

For a moment they all prayed that something had gone wrong and that maybe the dragons couldn't cross over. A beat passed. Then two. Heartbeats thundering a fast tempo in their ears and eyes glued to the Gate. Hands grasped weapons tighter nervously.

Then the Gate rippled violently, originating from a single point in the middle.

A scarlet scaled nose breached the gate, nostrils flaring as it took its first whiff of the foreign air. That was all the warning they got.

Suddenly the head rammed through followed by a wickedly curved claws the size of a horse. The beast dragged itself out fighting every step of the way against the pull of the gate. And it didn't stop there, two smaller ones snarling and shrieking and clawing their way viciously out.

With heavily armored scales of blood red and burnt orange with massive wings of flames, they were truly creatures of legend. None wasted time in admiration, their minds in utter turmoil. Nergal had finally been brought down defeated, how could this have happened?! Were all their sacrifices for nothing? They had failed! The biggest one, a mass of scarlet scales and fire wings opened its teeth-lined maw and roared to the heavens, eyes nearly white with madness. That snapped everyone out of their stunned daze.

"RETREAT!" Mark's own roar cut across the scrambling fighters. "OUT OF RANGE! NOW!"

Hastily, they followed their trusted friend's orders, complying without much fuss to the retreat. They scrambled to the other side of the dais, clanking and horses whinnying in fear, out of immediate range. Despite the rush, the retreat was almost flawless out of long practice, not a single collision occurring among the troops. It was only as they rushed, stumbling backwards that someone noticed something was wrong.

"NO!" Little Nils screamed.

People's heads swiveled to where the ice dragon was pointing to see something that chilled them to the depths of their bones. While the Lords had been retreating, Mark had walked straight forward through the rush onto the dais. The army did a simultaneous lurch forward to drag him back but he only raised his hand in a halt motion. They all halted, following his commands on instinct.

"Sorry about this Milords." He half-turned, smiling gently. "This isn't your fight any longer."

 _It was a strange thing._ Mark mused. _To watch your world, fall apart around you._

He had traveled for so long with this group, first as a Tactician and then as a friend. He had formed himself a place in their hearts just as surely as they found a place in his. From quiet Heath and his massive Wyvern, to sly, cheerful Matthew. With his great intelligence, he had carried them through trials and impossible battlefields, decimating opponents with thrice or even four times their number.

And through it all his secret had never come to life. Not even when the Ice dragon siblings had joined them and treated him like long-lost family.

It stung and rotted and _stabbed_ at him that after all this time...right as they were nearing the end, his dreaded secret would have to be revealed.

_But then again, I always was a sucker for happy endings._

Mark could already see the tragedies awaiting some of his beloved friends, those of the Ex-Fang in particular, would not have a good end. However, he knew that between his comrades and their endings, happy or not, were three big dragons. Three destructive fire dragons, nearly entirely insane.

He had no idea why they had gone insane and that troubled him more than he cared to admit. Had the society on the other side deteriorated so much? Or had it come from crossing the entirely too unstable gate? Or was it from the abrupt transition to an atmosphere that had certainly changed from the environment of hundreds of years ago? Or was it because there had been nothing for the War dragons to vent their bloodlust on for that time? And he had a feeling he wouldn't ever know the answer as he stared at the trio snarling on the dais, minds reduced to plain instinct.

The Tactician knew his soldiers like the back of his hand. That was why he knew that they couldn't defeat three of them on their own. One or two maybe, but not three.

"UNCLE!" Nils screamed in warning.

"Hmm?"

He turned around to see the middle fire dragon inhale with madness glinting in its demonic eyes. Mark smiled slightly, his curious slight fangs all the more noticeable, pupils going to vertical slits. Out of sight of his friends his tawny eyes began to bleed scarlet across the irises. A breeze began to pick up around him from nowhere, rustling his trademark green cloak around him. His hacked short dark hair ruffled around his face as the unknown power began to build around him.

"Is he using magic?!" Hector blurted in disbelief.

"I d-don't know! He's feeling really strange all of a sudden!" Priscilla yelled out.

"I don't know what he's doing!" Canas yelled, sounding more excited than terrified at the prospect.

Then the dragon exhaled.

Frantic screams at their beloved Tactician caught in their throats, choking them with soul numbing _terrorterrorterrornonothimnothimnothim!_

And then their quiet frail Tactician who they had never seen fight with anything, much less magic raised his hand at the approaching blaze calmly.

Mark raised both hands and suddenly the flames were splashing across an invisible barrier before his gloves. The flames roared to either side of him, charring away centuries of moss in an instant. Blinding firelight washed over his somber features. A wave of heat assaulted the group but that was all, no actual flame touched them as they stood in shock.

"ENOUGH!" The normally quiet Tactician snarled.

There was silence, the flames cut off as quickly as they began. The three dragons eyed him curiously, as one might study an insignificant bug. Mark took a deep breath, eyes hard.

"Declare yourself!" He yelled up at the three dragons, hoping for a flicker of recognition or sanity

The dragons didn't seem to understand his words, the trio just stared at him blankly.

Mark felt his throat clogging with something close to despair.

"I-" His voice was shaking with heartbreak but still firm. "I am Lord Marken Blackwood, the Guardian of the Gate! DECLARE YOURSELF!"

"…Uncle…" Nils began, stepping forward from their very confused friends. "Uncle, they're…gone."

Mark closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep shuddering breath to force down the grief. The first dragons he met in years and he was going to have to put them down. _Oh Naga, he was so useless!_ His very job was to keep an eye on this side of the gate and prevent this exact thing from happening! The years had been lonely and long and full of heartbreak and now he was going to have to _kill one of the dragons he had been protecting_.

The three snarled, eying him with murderous intent, wisps of flames curling around their jaws. However, there was no recognition in their eyes, no fleeting glimpse of sanity. All that was left of them was vicious beasts driven mad. Fire dragons had been vicious and volatile to begin with, lacking any ounce of reason, these would be much worse. Lyn barely restrained Nils from rushing out to join the other man.

"Uncle, you can't take three on at once! Let me help you!" The boy pleaded desperately with his only living relative.

"No Nils." Mark replied firmly, eyes never leaving his foes. "You're only a hatchling. This...This is my duty."

Power began to build around him, thicker now and visible in pitch black waves. His green cloak was snapping fiercely in the wind. He turned and gave his companions a bittersweet smile, aware that he may not survive a fight with three mad dragons but willing to reveal his secret to keep them safe.

"Thank you...for everything."

Then the black winds rose up, thick and heavy, and consumed him.

"Mark!" Heath yelled.

Other yells were promptly swallowed. An equally massive beast was rising from where Mark had stood. Unlike the armoured fire dragon, Mark as a dragon carried a sleek and graceful design much like Ninian had appeared. He had never been a particularly strong person, frail and slight in stature and prone to illnesses.

As a dragon all his weaknesses were washed away. He was pitch black, and not as heavily armored as the fire dragons. A long and sleek tailed lashed behind him, tipped with dangerous spikes. Leathery wings had faint touches of crimson along the edges as he snapped them open and bellowed a challenge at the opposing fire dragons. He glanced back briefly, with a large scarlet eye. What he lacked in the Fire Dragon's sheer intimidating armour and teeth he made up for in presence. There was something elegant and undoubtedly royal about him now, like they should all be bowing at his feet.

The three larger ones snapped and growled in clear threat towards the other dragon. Mark responded in kind with a few warning jaw clashes of his own. The combatants eyed each other warily, tails lashing. Even under the veil of madness, they recognized Mark for the deadly threat he was. He was their equal in size if not smaller but their primal instincts firmly labeled him as a higher breed of Dragon, something to be feared.

"He says we need to give him space!" Nils yelled.

Without question, they moved backwards their faces awed. Their frail tactician was a massive beast capable of destroying a country? It seemed so surreal but gave them hope. That gentle young man who everyone had befriended one by one, welcoming him into their guarded hearts, was a _dragon_ and was on the level of the gnashing, snarling creatures of legend before them. They might live through this after all.

"Rebecca, Priscilla, Lucius, Canas, can you give him support?" Eliwood barked, taking control.

"Yeah!"

"Then do so! Remember, They're dragons, but we have dragon-killing weapons! Aim for weak points in the scales! Raven!"

"Got it!" The red head nodded, stepping forward and raising his shield to defend the long distance fighters from anything that dared to come near them.

"Don't go near the fight! If you don't have something that can wreck enough damage don't even _think_ about getting anywhere near there!"

Movement was halted as the floor shook. Mark had taken the matter out of their hands entirely and lunged at the largest one, ivory claws fully extended. His wings fluttered and twisted with his movements, giving him small amounts of lift to boost his maneuverability to dodge returning strikes. The closed quarters of the shrine wouldn't allow him to fully take to the air and have an advantage. The fire dragons persistently tried to flame him down. In this case, their greatest strength was their down fall. Mark saved his breath, already knowing that dragons were immune to dragonfire. All his focus lay with using his talons, teeth and deadly tail to strike through the hardened armour.

Heath grit his teeth, hand tightening on the lance in his grasp. He refused to stand idly by when the man who had been understanding to his plight, who had been so kind and forgiving to him, went willingly to his death. The Wyvern Lord patted the moss green side of his mount.

"Do you trust me, old friend?" He murmured, fingers running across the massive scar pattern on the scaled shoulders.

The wyvern turned his head and gave his rider a clearly annoyed look, as if to say _'What kind of question was that?'_

"Sorry, sorry." Heath chuckled faintly. "You already know what I was going to say anyway."

Hyperion gave a pleased huff and turned to the front, great muscles coiling like a cat. His wings half opened, in preparation for Heath's inevitable order.

"We're gonna have to fly like we've never flown before. You ready Hyperion? "

In response, the wyvern let out a fierce bellowing roar of a battle cry that echoed over the battlefield. One of the dragons glanced across but then was promptly smacked across the face by Mark's tail. Heath crouched over on the saddle, gauntlet fingertips clenched tightly around the Rex Hasta. Then with a great wind, they darted straight past the front line.

"HEATH!"

The green haired knight could only hear the wind in his ears and feel his heart thumping furiously in his chest. His sight was only fixed on the brawl before him. With a last pat to his faithful steed, he let go of the reigns. Hyperion was in full control now, relying on his natural instinct instead of human commands.

_Strike hard and fast before they can flame! If we get caught in their flames it's all over!_

In a remarkable show of skill, Hyperion weaved among the crashing limbs and flailing tails. His wings strained and twisted as he adjusted them at blinding pace to avoid getting hit. Heath just clung tight to the saddle, eyes at a squint and praying to every god he had ever heard of. The dangerous maneuvers couldn't stop the reckless grin from gracing his face, he hadn't been lying when he said they would have to fly like they never had before. The sheer _skill_ they were pulling off, spinning and diving and redirecting themselves with twitches of wings, Heath throwing his body weight behind the maneuvers, was exhilarating like nothing else.

The instant something not black came into view, Heath's blue eyes narrowed and he lashed out with the powerful lance, driving both arms and Hyperion's momentum behind the strike. He knew he hit home when one of the smaller beasts howled and pulled back from where it had been harassing Mark.

The open maw was a clear invitation, At least three heavy arrows slammed into the opening. They were closely followed by the slicing winds of Excalibur cast by Priscilla. The searing light of the divine spell of Auroela was accompanied by the dark flames of Gespenst. They were cast by Lucius and a gleefully cackling Canas, respectively.

There was a thunderous explosion as all the high powered spells were stuffed down the fire dragon's throat in a magical cocktail of destruction. The sheer force sent Heath flying, crashing Hyperion behind the front lines with a pained yell. Mark let out a startled roar but only had to glance at the mangled form of the fallen dragon to realize he only had two opponents to deal with now.

"He says to hit one with everything when he gives you a clear shot!" Nils shouted out, translating his elder dragon kin.

"Heath, you okay?" Hector bellowed, not taking his eyes from the fight before him. Armads was held deceptively loosely in his arm, readying to spring into action at a moment's notice.

Heath grunted as he swung himself back into the saddle. "Nothing serious!"

"Ready!" Eliwood commanded, raising Durandal.

Then the smaller war dragon took a telltale deep breath. Mark's head instantly snapped to the creature, ignoring the talons digging into his flesh. A harsh shove sent the bigger one staggering backwards. Moving faster than something with that much bulk should move, he threw himself in front of the warriors. There was the sharp snap of leather and his wings expanded to their full spread, shielding the people behind him. The raging flames washed over him harmlessly, warming his resistant scales. As the fire faded, He hurriedly closed his wings and pounced back into the fray.

Dragon blood stained the ground, Mark himself was being overwhelmed by the stronger Alpha Fire dragon and his lackey. A startled cry was ripped from his jaws as flaming jaws clamped around his shoulder, dangerously near his neck, digging cruelly. A lash of his bladed tail shoved the minor dragon away, scoring a deep gash across its snout. Pained ruby eyes met Eliwood's clear blue.

"FIRE!"

The dragon fought back well, protecting its weak points and making itself a thorough nuisance. Its flames, while not as strong as the leader's, was still powerful enough to drive the Archsage's Forblaze back. They struggled, spells splashing against its hide, Raven's Regal blade biting deep and Lyn's Sol Katti slashing whirlwinds of slices across its face. It was madness, dodging claws with a hairsbreadth to spare, and sometimes not making it. Their magic user trio switched rapidly between healing injured comrades near death and dishing out their own Molotov cocktail of explosions. Light, Anima and Dark magic were simple not meant to be combined in the manner that they were doing in desperation. Rebecca's heavy bolts littered the dragon's back, driving themselves into the armour by the sheer force she possessed as a skilled sniper. Eliwood and Hector in tandem struck the final blow, decapitating the mad beast out of its misery.

Heath let out a panicked shout and they realized, they hadn't been paying attention to Mark's battle. They turned instantly, exhausted by their own long battle but ready to aid their friend. The floor was splattered with thick rusty dragon's blood, claw gauges marring the intricate patterns.

Mark was only weakly on his feet, blood oozing out of a serious savaged wound at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Nobody could tell if the other dragon had ripped a vein, but the injury was tickling rivulets of blood down Mark's chest armour. One wing was held at an awkward angle and claw lacerations had been dug into his chest and sides, digging up scales and armour plates.

The other Fire dragon that towered over Mark, grinned with grotesquely bloodstained fangs and eyes intent. It took a threatening step forward, sick satisfaction in its eyes as Mark took a wary step backward. The muscles of the other dragon bunched as he prepared to spring.

There was a flash of blue, and suddenly, Ninian was there. Ninian _who was dead but suddenly wasn't._ There in all her powerful oracle, ice dragon glory. She took down the worn dragon with grace and style that had been lacking the previous desperate brawl. The Dragon's body crashed to the ground and lay still. The ice dragon reverted to pale, beautiful, _alive_ Ninian, looking the same as she had before her death. She smiled slightly, mostly at Eliwood who was struck speechless at the reappearance of his lost love who he had been forced to kill.

"Braimond did something and brought me back with his life." She smiled, making her way over. "He said it was redemption."

She paused before she stepped into reaching distance, looking unsure. "I-"

Eliwood didn't even hesitate to rush forward and enfold her in a hug, closely followed by Nils and Lyn. They were elbowing each other, arms all in awkward places, armour poking uncomfortably and tears of pure joy on their faces. They didn't really care that much.

_Because she had been dead._

They had mourned her.

Wept at the terrible tragedy.

And spent all the time thereafter keeping strict eye on her grieving brother and heartbroken and guilt stricken lover.

For a shining moment the world was bright and shining and full of hope.

There was a beat of silence.

Someone opened their mouth to cheer.

Then Mark finally collapsed.

It was like watching a tower fall. First, he leaned, reaching over his center of gravity. Then his legs buckled and his body collided with the floor with a loud thud that shook the ground. Last to hit was his head, heavy with exhaustion, ruby eyes hazy in pain.

The large body of a Black Dragon lying limp across the alter glowed softly, before receding, leaving plain old Mark behind. He lay sprawled across the cold stone like a broken doll, Cloak fanned around his body, blotted with crimson.

There was a rush of motion. The Lords raced forward, followed closely by all of Mark's other friends. Eliwood reached him first, falling to his knees and easing the Tactician over carefully. Mark's face was ashen and bright blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth. The entire shoulder of his beloved green cloak was stained the muddy wet dark red of cloth soaked in blood. His breathing was sharp and quick as he tried to fight back the pain, and he couldn't help letting out a soft snarl at the pain of moving.

"Priscilla!" Hector called frantically, his brash voice even louder with panic.

Though she was still worn from the difficult battle she nodded and began using her strongest stave on their beloved friend. Canas and Lucius equally scrambled for their staves, even more exhausted than Priscilla and less skilled than her. That didn't stop them from unloading the remains of their energy in an attempt to help heal the black dragon. Fogged ruby eyes fluttered open.

"Mark, you great idiot." Eliwood whispered.

Lyn, sitting right by his side, squeezed his hand tightly like a lifeline. He tried to squeeze back, but the very motion caused all the remnants of muscles in his ripped shoulder explode in pain. Mark had to choke back a scream. Hector clung to Eliwood's shoulder tightly as he stared at the tactician, his knuckles white with pressure. If it was hurting him, the Pheraen Lord gave no sign, his hand smoothing back Mark's sweat soaked hair.

"Breath through the pain." Hector counseled.

The tactician took deep breaths, suddenly feeling dizzy with how utterly wiped out he was. He hadn't had a fight like that in years, if at all. His jaw ached with amount of pressure he had to use to punch through the other dragons' armour.

Mark smiled faintly and slightly loopy. He looked exhausted, even more so than usual. This was an exhaustion far worse than an all-nighter strategic planning session. Pale and drawn and so very fragile like spun glass fallen from a ledge, appearing whole until someone tried to pick it up and it disintegrated under fingertips.

"Is it...?" He whispered, barely audible, but in the silence it echoed in the shrine.

"Yeah, it's over." Heath smiled, Hyperion leaning over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his second favourite person in the world, crooning a low bass rumbling purr.

"...I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner," Mark croaked weakly, blinking rapidly. "I'm a... dragon..."

"Yeah," Raven choked out a laugh. "Yeah, I think we got that."

The group tittered and smiled fondly at their Tactician, crowding closer to offer unconscious comfort. White knuckles around weapons and other's hands betrayed their fear at his condition, even as they kept their faces warm and without any form of judgement for their tactician. Nils sat by his shoulder, single-mindedly pressing down with his sash against Mark's shoulder wound. Ninian eased his head onto her lap, to hold his spine still in case any part of it was broken.

"It's alright, we understand." Lyn said softly, stroking his black locks tenderly. "You're our friend and our Tactician. We trust you with our lives."

The dragon leaned into the caress with a faint smile.

"It's kinda cool, you know!" Rebecca smiled reassuringly.

The Tactician huffed quietly in amusement, his eyes hazy and drooping closed.

"Mark…" Raven warned. "Don't close your eyes."

The dragon forced his eyes open at the Cornwall mercenary's sharp demand.

"This…is my fault," he sighed quietly. "This gate is my responsibility."

"You were the dragon left behind to guard the gate." Eliwood realized.

"Y-yeah, I did such a good job too." He choked on a laugh, tasting blood on his tongue.

"Don't say that." Hector commanded. "None of this is your fault."

"I left my post." The tactician argued weakly.

"But you probably had a good reason." Hector argued back bluntly. "And I you were here by yourself, do you think you could have held back Nergal AND all of those creepy zombie people?"

"I…maybe?"

"Uncle said he smelt another dragon when he was doing his yearly fly over, so he changed into a human to look. But he got lost for a few years and he never found the source. Then he started smelling us! So he started to look for us."

"Wait, so you're saying that there's another dragon in Elibe somewhere?" Heath yelped.

"Dun wor'y," Mark slurred. "'sa divine drag'n. pacifist."

"Mark," Hector said sharply, with a hint of panic. "Keep your eyes open."

He just blinked slowly and uncomprehending up at them, his eyes faded to a dull pink. He coughed lightly, blood dribbling down his chin.

"'M tired."

"Come on Mark, stay awake!" Eliwood bit his lip and slapped Mark as hard as he dared, trying to stop him from drifting off.

"Ow" Mark muttered. "'M sleepy, lemme sleep."

Mark's eyelids slipped closed over dull crimson and didn't open again.

"Mark? Mark! MARK!"

X


	2. On Freedom's Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: 'On Freedom's Wings' also known as 'dragons got seasick, who knew?'
> 
> Series: FE 7+8
> 
> Characters: Tactician Mark, Heath, Jaffar, Nino, Legault/Heath (Possibly. Might just be good friends, can never tell with Legault)
> 
> Plot: Fleeing Bern's relentless pursuit, the small group of Ex-fang, a disillusioned wyvernlord and a war weary tactician head across the ocean towards Magvel. Unfortunately, they came just in time for another war.

**X**

"Legault, I hate you."

The lilac haired thief patted the green cloaked figure on the back with a little sympathy. "There, there, we're almost there."

A baleful tawny eye glared up at the unrepentant thief. "That does not stop me from hating your guts."

The former Hurricane shrugged. "You were the one who recommended the trip."

"Yes, but you're the one who-"

The speaker abruptly cut off, his already pale complexion going paler with a touch of green. Legault sighed and resumed rubbing his companion's back as he vomited over the rail of the ship. His gaze traveled to the spectacular view of the sparkling endless ocean before him. He wasn't one for landscape but even he could admit it was a breathtaking sight. Not that Mark particularly cared at the moment, too busy contaminating the sea as the ship gave another unpleasant lurch.

"...Carrots...why is it always carrots..." Mark groaned, all the fight gone out of him. "I don't even eat carrots."

The Tactician looked over his shoulder mournfully. Nino was comfortably curled up in her purple cloak next to the lightly dozing Jaffar, fast asleep and a healthy pink colour in her cheeks. The assassin had comfortably tucked the both of them into a discrete corner next to a stack of barrels. In fact, if he didn't know they were there, he wouldn't have seen them, true to Jaffar's preference for dark shadows. The Assassin had found a particularly shady corner of the deck, out of the warm sunlight of the day.

The massive green bulk of Hyperion was also snoring loudly, tucked neatly around himself to take up as little space as possible on the deck. His snores went uncontested by the annoyed crew, because despite their disgruntlement they didn't have a death wish to annoy the sleeping reptile. Heath wasn't asleep but he was certainly drowsy, the warm sunlight working to knock him out like it had everyone else. He had cleverly taken refuge beneath the shade of his Wyvern's wings. The normally uptight and strict man had practically melted into a puddle with his eyes half closed, looking like a content cat. Blue armour had been neatly packed away for the moment, abandoned in the heat. His customary long sleeved undershirt had been rolled up at the sleeves, exposing several white lines of scars. His leather gloves had also systematically vanished.

"This has got to be one of your better ideas." The Hurricane smirked.

The Lord Tactician grinned slightly, despite his unsteadiness. "I agree."

After the small army had broken up and dispersed, the Lords and Knights returning to their posts and others going off in pairs or groups, the small group of Ex-Fang members had bonded together. Nino expressed wishes to settle down for a peaceful life but both Legault and Jaffar were not hopeful.

Legault had hoped to accompany Heath as the Wyvern Lord fled Bern's wrath. In a surprising moment, Heath had just smiled at the man and left on swift wings before he could follow him, claiming it was better for Legault to not travel with a highly obvious Wyvern. What went unsaid was that the knight did not expect to live very long with Bern constantly on his tail.

The group of three Ex-Fangs used every skill they possessed to slip away from all pursuers. Matthew had set up an intricate information network to monitor all his former comrades and keep them all in touch. Some of them returned to their countries and villages, dragging along their new best friends or significant others who had no place to go. Some of them settled down safely in new places like Lucius who started an orphanage in Araphen with Raven helping fund the place with his mercenary efforts. Those people were fine, but every month they heard their own situation deteriorate.

A bounty on their heads.

New dispatches of soldiers sent to flush out the more remote villages.

Polite entreaties to other countries to have them join the effort to bring these heinous 'criminals' to justice.

Or in Mark's case, to bring him to heel.

Heath had been hounded at every turn, killing over a hundred pursuing wyvern riders before flying into the depths of the Bern Mountains. Straight into dangerous feral wyvern territory. He hadn't been seen after that. Bern assumed him dead but still kept a sharp eye out. Vaida had sent a brief message saying that she was positive he was still alive, citing his unnatural skill with wyverns and Hyperion would keep him alive.

Mark had been hounded by Bern, Eutria and Lycia for his talents, so much so that Bern and Eutria were on the verge of starting a war over him. Every village he passed through were more than eager to hand him over to the authorities for a gold reward. Not a single person could be trusted. He was not eager to be forced into servitude, trapped in a gilded cage as countries used him ruthlessly to their own ends. In better circumstances, he imagined that he would've offered his services to any of the lords, Eliwood, Hector or Lyn. But he knew that such an action now would only bring the wrath of the two superpowers down on their head. He was running aimlessly and forever terrified of the soldiers on his tail.

Matthew had sounded very worried in the last update he had sent the other fugitive's way.

If Mark fell into either country's hands, it would not bode well for the others.

Finally, it had come through the grapevine that all the fugitives were to meet Mark at Port Badon, _he had a plan_. The Ex-Fangs had immediately headed that way. They arrived to find a haggard Heath and Mark. Definitely worse for wear, with new scars, fresh wounds, tattered clothes and far thinner than when last they saw them.

Outlining the plan, the group of fugitives haggled the price for combined passage away from Elibe. It was expensive, considering the very large Wyvern that was coming with them. Heath had offered to remain but that idea was quickly derailed.

Mark sagged against Legault weakly, suddenly exhausted. The man took it all in stride, slinging an arm over his shoulder to keep Mark upright.

"Woah, woah. Not gonna puke again right?"

"...don't think so..."

The Tactician had to be half-dragged, half-carried across the deck, partially conscious. His head was hanging loosely and his legs were like noodles, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Thankfully, Legault was strong and used to manhandling bodies (even though he mostly dealt with ones that weren't still breathing). Mark came partially back to consciousness as he registered the sunlight being blocked. Then he vaguely noticed he was propped against something large and cool that rose up and down.

-what was it called again?

Legault smiled lightly, the expression growing a bit sad as he spied the thick crescent scar that ran down his friend's throat and onto his shoulder, a massive bite scar from the fire dragon they had fought at the gate that almost caused him to bleed out. It had been a very close call; Mark had passed out midway through healing causing everyone to freak out. They had thought that was it and he had lost too much blood.

It had been everywhere.

Splattered across the floor and creeping across clothes and sleeves and bandages.

At that point, the rest of the army barged in. The lack of noise caused them to assume the fight was over. The rest of their units had been let outside with the supplies to not crowd the small amount of floor space. They had camped anxiously outside, praying for general victory and panicking over dear friends and lovers that had been chosen for the final assault. Matthew had shamelessly egged on their curiosity until they snapped and came charging in, ready to provide backup if needed. Thankfully they also brought the remaining fresh healers, a dozen fresh staves and two bags of elixirs.

A slight breeze ruffled the sweat soaked dark brown locks. Mark's tawny eyes were glazed and half-lidded from exhaustion. His healthy pale complexion had faded to a gray pallor occasionally touched with green. The young man had been seasick for most of the trip and barely able to keep down any food, to everyone's worry.

Nobody had ever said anything about the Tactician getting seasick before. Mark rode Hyperion all the time for surveying battlefields and he had never gotten airsick before. They had assumed that it followed the same principal.

For a dragon, Mark was remarkably flimsy.

"Alright kiddo, get some sleep."

He ruffled the brown hair in a way he knew Mark hated. The brunette didn't say a word at the treatment, even leaning his head towards the comforting touch. That action alone spoke volumes at how sick Mark was feeling. His eyes slipped closed and his body slumped against Hyperion's flank. The thief carefully tucked the tactician's favourite green cloak around his charge, forever wary of the inclination that pale skin had to burning. Legault sighed loudly and rocked to his feet in a graceful motion.

He swept his gaze around the deck, unconsciously performing a headcount again. Heath was flat out snoring on his supposedly comfortable position on Hyperion. Frankly, Legault thought the contortion would give the knight back problems when he awoke. At this point, he was just going to assume that the rider knew what he was doing. Socially awkward he may be, it was undeniable that Heath knew everything about Wyverns. Legault just assumed that also included the correct way to sleep on one too. The assassin and his charge hadn't moved from the last time he checked, still tucked cozily in their enviably cool corner.

His sharp eyes made out the dark shape of land approaching off the prow easily.

"So..." He mused. "That's Magvel..."

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so Mark lived. Because otherwise, how would I have a story? Actually I kid, if you see anything weird in the writing that's because this was actually intended to be a standalone not linked to the previous chapter. This was originally gonna be written with hints and small clues so that you're never quite sure if he actually IS a dragon. But I figured that's be dumb and I decided to link it to the previous chapter. I hope you enjoy my aggravated FE7 writing.


	3. This Dragon Plots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of a blurb later on where I try to rationalize the 'class' changes and headcannon the ENTIRE WYVERN SPECIES. You know, the whole, why are they different colours etc.
> 
> Opinions on my Wyvern headcannons are welcome.

X

"Mark, wake up. We've arrived at Bethroen. Mark!"

"Mm?" The tactician mumbled blearily, eyes drifting open.

Heath, dressed in full armour again, was worriedly hovering over his friend. Despite the darkened light of twilight, Mark could easily make out his distinctive streak of white hair among the dark green locks. The Tactician yawned blindly, feeling wretched. His mouth tasted like old socks, specifically, like the kind that Hector had after a day of fighting. Mark knew the taste intimately from when the lord would inevitably lose a pair and he would wake up the next morning with the grungy things lying on his pillow. There was no proof, but nearly everybody who had suffered the same were convinced that Matthew had something to do with it.

If Mark had any say about it, he would happily drop back to sleep, no matter the uncomfortable surface. Unfortunately for his peace, his backrest was moving in preparation to get up. With hazy eyes and swearing foul enough to strip paint, he conceded his defeat and made to rise. He struggled upright with leaden limbs, using the scaly flank behind him as support.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes and yawned. Jaffar was standing sentinel over the small group, eyeballing the nervous sailors as they went about their duties with his emotionless unnerving glare. The Ex-Fang Hurricane was engaged in spirited haggling with the ship's captain over the final payment. From the playful slaps the thief was giving the bulky fellow and the winks he was sending Nino, the Captain had yet to realize that Legault had already stolen back some of the gold he had payed. Sweet little Nino was giggling furiously into her hand at her 'uncle's antics.

Mark smiled faintly. Then the ship tipped a little harshly to the side, in the wake of a larger ship docking. As the floor lurched under him again, Mark's knees unexpectedly folded. The Wyvern Lord let out a small noise of surprise, lunging forward to catch the Tactician.

The sleepy dragon just yawned into his saviour's face and squirmed away from where part of Heath's armour was digging into his side.

Heath just let out a fond huff, lifting his pseudo-brother's too light form up. With some fuss, he deposited Mark on Hyperion's saddle. The glare the man gave him at the manhandling was greatly diminished by his exhausted hunched over form and deathly pale complexion. He didn't look like he could swat a fly, much less get retaliation. Hyperion craned his head back by his passenger, crooning as the cloying smell of illness around his second favourite human.

Legault sauntered over to the duo, done with the arrangements with the Ship's Captain, leering at Heath as was the norm.

"So boss, we got a plan?"

Mark nodded weakly, his tawny eyes sharp. "First we get us out of the town. We need at least a day to get our feet under us. I... don't think I can take more travel right now."

Legault nodded sharply, the motion doing nothing to hide the flicker of worry in his amethyst eyes. In the next moment, he was all business.

"Jaffar, take Nino and find us a good place for the night. Mark, can you take flying?"

"Eh, I guess we'll find out."

The knight took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation. "Mark." He enunciated slowly. "That's a yes or no question. I don't want to be a league aloft and you deciding to throw up over the side."

The shorter man shrugged. "I think I'll be fine."

Legault nodded, carefully braiding his hair back and tucking into his collar. "Okay, in that case, Heath, circle on Hyperion until I give you the signal to land. I'll scout out information about the country and the current conflicts."

The silent Angel of Death inclined his head slightly, ushering his charge into the crowds. Despite their obviously foreign appearance, they melded into the crowd effortlessly. It spoke volumes about Jaffar's level of skill, and Nino's own abilities after such a long time with an assassin.

Heath, vaulted onto his mount's back effortlessly, sitting behind Mark to ensure the tactician would not fall. The Knight didn't even bother to look for Legault, knowing that the thief had already finished hiding his distinctive characteristics, pulled up his cloak's hood and slipped away. Careful of the Wyvern's great weight, he prompted Hyperion to shuffle awkwardly off the boat, ducking frequently to avoid rigging. Several sailors were pointing fingers and staring. Heath shifted in discomfort, time as a deserter embedding the idea of attention being a bad thing, none of his unrest showed on his stony face. Granted, it was probably rare to see a full-fledged Wyvern Lord that belonged to no army. The minute he judged they were clear of the rigging in the immediate area, he tightened his knees around his mount.

Hyperion, understanding the nonverbal command, crouched and half opened his wings. Heath gripped the reigns and tugged back on them lightly. The Wyvern roared and launched off the dock, startling several workers. Mark let out his own yelp at being jarred. Following his rider's slight commands, Hyperion circled around the dock before veering off to sweep over the entire city.

The familiar feel of wind racing past him and the lurch of Wyvern's wing beats made a wide grin break Heath's stern facade. Being in the air relaxed him like nothing else, something Hyperion agreed with entirely. The ship ride over was a nightmare, being grounded for so long. The only way to get off had been to riskily tip over the edge of the ship. Hyperion had had to do the dangerous maneuver once, to catch fish to feed himself.

Despite being lost in the wondrous feeling of flight; Heath couldn't help but note the layout of the seaside city. The soldier in him, systematically noted the roads out of Bethroen and defensible points in the streets. He circled, noting optimal places for archers and choke points for enemies. It was second nature to look out for archers, even though he had a Delphi shield now. Out of all the flyers of the army, it had been decided that he was the one most in need of it and Mark had let him keep it when they disbanded. The magical item that protected a flyer's vulnerable wings was solidly fastened around the wyvern's neck, also protecting the softer patch of scales at the base of the neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of silver flashing in the fading sunset. It blinked in a designated pattern, signaling him to land.

"Mark, you alright?"

The young man opened a tawny eye sleepily and waved his hand in a floppy dismissal. Heath sighed and tugged on the reigns again.

"Slow descent Hyperion, Mark might get sick again."

The mount gave an offended huff, even as their flight began to gently slope downward. Even at the slight descent, they dropped at quite a rate, until the Knight could make out the form of Legault standing outside a large stable with his palm-sized signaling mirror. With all the precision and aerial skill of someone who had been flying for years, the duo coordinated their touchdown neatly to not jar their passenger.

"Got space for Hyperion in the stable." Legault said, uncharacteristically grim. "How's Mark?"

"Sleeping again. I take it there's no good news?"

"No." Legault shook his head. "There's a war between the country we're in, Grado, and practically every other country. Everything was peaceful a month ago, then Grado attacked Renais unprovoked and conquered them with the surprise attack. It's not looking good."

Heath raised an eyebrow as he lowered Mark's unconscious body down into the thief's arms.

"Unprovoked attack after centuries of peace? Were there sour relations?"

Legault's jaw clenched as he adjusted his grip on the Lord Tactician. "That's the thing. The royal families were close friends. This caught everyone by surprise."

Heath whistled in surprise, digging through Hyperion's saddlebags. "How much do you want to bet Mark's going to get us involved? Purely by accident?"

The Hurricane laughed, his seriousness falling from his features like water. "I'm not taking that one. I suppose I'll have to save the rest for Mark to hear."

"I'll settle down Hyperion for the night, then."

"Right, we have two separate rooms. You're rooming in Room 4 with me as usual-"

The Wyvern Lord groaned and banged his head on his Wyvern's side. Said beast craned his neck back to look at his partner with amusement.

"-Nino is going to be looking after Mark in Room 3. She's more likely to know what to do anyway. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah..." Heath grumbled. "I'm not an idiot, what do you take me for?"

Legault winked, back to his usual light hearted, flirtatious self. "I dunno, the eye candy?" He playfully blew into the knight's ear as he passed, his arms still full of snoozing strategist.

Like clockwork, the easily flustered Knight flushed red and squawked. "Legault!"

X

* * *

X

"Okay, what do you have to report?"

After two days of plenty sleep and nutritious stew, Mark looked far better. His pasty white complexion had gained some colour, even his perpetual dark circles under his eyes had faded some. Nino, however, persistently refused to let him even think of leaving yet. Due to the fifteen-year old's strict orders, their tactical meeting was being held around Mark's bed. No one bothered to argue with the overpowered sage as she waved around her heal staff for emphasis on the matter.

No one in the group had very good Resistance against magic so when Nino decided something, it was law. No one could resist her puppy dog eyes anyway. Even the stoic and hardened assassin Angel of Death, caved under the fearsome technique.

Currently, she was precariously perched on the bedpost staring firmly at Mark, watching for the slightest bit of discomfort. Jaffar, loomed behind her in his usual post as her self-appointed bodyguard. Heath had found an uncomfortable stool that he had dragged to the bedside. The thief had plopped himself on the Tactician's bed with little care, the serious frown back on his face.

Mark's ever-present green cloak had been removed and draped over the end bed posts. Without the bulk of green cloth to add physical size to match his strong personality, he looked deceptively frail and fragile. This appearance was firmly dissuaded by the fierce edge of genius blazing like a flame in his tawny gold eyes. Sitting up, resting on the headboard behind him he fixed the thief with a firm gaze. This was no longer Mark, their brilliant friend with health problems. This was Lord Tactician Marken, who single handedly, commanded a small group back and forth over the continent to take out a massive organization and an ancient fire dragon from the days of the Scouring.

"To begin with, in terms of formal 'Units', the magic users have become more diverse. Mages can become horseback 'Mage knights', they wield staves and anima. The Sages here also use Light. The Valkaries here use Light instead of anima. As for the Dark magic users..."

"Are they stronger over here?" Mark commented grimly, storing all the information firmly in his great archive of tactical information."

"Their druids use anima and apparently there is a second rare class of 'Summoner'. They use dark and staves but their danger comes from their ability to summon a monster to fight for them. The higher ranked they are, the more powerful the monster is."

"Monsters?" Nino piped up. "Like morphs?"

Legault shrugged. "No idea. Getting that information alone was difficult enough."

"Any other surprises?"

"I have no idea how they came up with the idea but they have 'Great Knights' literally a General on a horse. Weirdest idea ever. How do they even _get_ horses that can handle all that weight?!"

Mark frowned, rubbing his chin lightly. "I'd imagine it would increase their range in battle, but they'd be disadvantaged if their horse is cut down. Being so heavy, their horses wouldn't be able to dodge as well as a Paladin. If they have such heavy armour it would be quite difficult for them to recover if they lose their mount...not like a Paladin or Cavalier. But if their horses are as heavily armored as they are, it might work. They also wouldn't have a General's 'Great Sheild'..."

After several minutes of muttering, Mark drew himself up. "I think; I will need to observe one of these 'Great Knights' to fully grasp their combat ability. Legault, is there anything else?"

The lilac haired thief smirked lightly. "Heath, you're gonna love this."

The Wyvern Lord gave his friend an apprehensive look, the appropriate response when the Hurricane smirked like that.

"Apparently, Pegasus and Wyvern Riders get an option to switch their mounts on promotion."

"WHAT?" Heath spluttered. "How coul-? I mean-"

"It's a rare practice. The people I asked say there aren't many of these 'Wyvern Knights' around. They use a particularly vicious sub-species of Wyvern, found only on Magvel. They have no front legs. 'cause of that, their riders can't use swords. They have to use lances to reach past their mount's wingspan. The riders tend to be highly skilled in lance use to make up for it. Combined with the momentum of a Wyvern, they say they can 'pierce' anything."

Now it was Heath's turn to descend into muttering. "If they have no front legs...Their wingspan must be enormous to compensate. They'd be monsters in the air if they can easily reach superior air height..."

"Bad news?"

The Knight nodded distractedly. "...wait...they'd be less intelligent. The riders won't have good bonds with their beasts if they're so feral. There would be flaws in commands. A skilled, bonded Wyvern Lord should be able to overpower one."

Heath nodded decisively. "I haven't seen one yet, but I believe Hyperion and I can handle one. He's at least twelve years old, quite old for a battle Wyvern. We'd have experience superiority."

Mark nodded in agreement along with him.

Wyverns, the Elibian kind at least, or to be more specific, the Bernese Kind, grew larger the longer they live. In the wild, a strong Matriarch or Alpha Wyvern can live for as long as a century or more. Wyverns were resistant species and shared a link with dragons. Around a third of the species had kept the dragon longevity trait. Dragons never aged per se, they accumulated more power as the years passed. Some lucky Wyverns get this ability but few reach a lengthy lifespan to get any benefit. Theoretically, if a Wyvern survived a full ten centuries it could class as a dragon. It never happened of course, so it was all wild speculation.

The kind especially close to the Bern capital had short life expectancy as when their young kept getting taken to be raised as mounts, it drove them to be very competitive for survival amongst the mountains. They brutally fought amongst each other for defend-able positions for their nests.

Those Wyverns were mostly the ones used by Bern as mounts, feral red ones in all shades, large dependable brown ones and shades of gray and muted colours. The muted colours were an attempt of camouflage in the barren mountains. Away from the harsh mountains, their lifespans would be tripled if they weren't used as military beasts of burden. They rarely lived past six years unless ridden by a skilled or talented rider who made the rank of Wyvern Lord. Vaida and Umbriel had been one of those rare ones. Umbriel had been a particularly nasty piece of work, a large scarred gray Matriarch with red-brown wing sails.

The ones further from humanity band together in peaceful packs that live long natural lives. Though less violent, they possess greater intelligence. They lived in more hospitable regions of the mountains that actually possessed greenery. Those came in widely varied shades of Green and blue.

The story behind Hyperion was quite a tale. The Wyvern possessed a deep green gleam to his scales, clearly not a standard Bern Wyvern and far older than a military Wyvern had a right to be. The truth was, when Heath was a young ten-year-old boy he traveled into the Bern Mountains alone. It was a dangerous task for a ten-year-old but his family was running on harsh times and he thought to go hunting to gather some meat for winter. Archery was not his strong suit but he managed. He luckily stumbled across a forest area ripe with game several hours in. After he had taken down three hares to his delight, he heard the piteous wailing of a Wyvern fledgling.

He instinctively ducked, as any Bernese knew to do. The cry of a hatchling meant irate overprotective mothers. When nothing happened, he inched forward and was greeted by the sight of a green hatchling howling over its mother's body. He offered the hatchling a rabbit and that was that. Hyperion never left his side after that.

The addition of a natural predator to the family made hunting ridiculously easy. He also worked as a nice heater in winter. Within two years, Heath was flying bareback on Hyperion all the time. At the time he had no idea how strange that was. Thankfully, the boy was rather scrawny in his younger years so Hyperion could carry him easily. To make themselves useful, he trained Hyperion to lift heavy objects and produce for the other farmers in the area.

It was only when he entered the Bern military after his parent's deaths that he realized how extraordinary his ability to communicate with Hyperion was. He also realized that Hyperion was a rare colour as there wasn't a single green Wyvern in the army. Upon seeing his talent with his mount, he was fast tracked into becoming a Wyvern rider at age seventeen and quickly snatched up to join Vaida's Raiders. His combat skill was mediocre but his immense skill with Hyperion made up for it.

"Even so, we should remain wary of those two 'units' as we know little of their attack habits." Mark stated firmly.

"Sounds good." Nino chirped, swinging her legs.

"Legault, what's Lore and current rumour around here. Are there any rumours of Dragons?"

The ex-Fang scowled, pulling out a map of their new continent. Making sure the tactician could see, he started pointing.

"Okay, apparently there was this big Demon King a few centuries ago-"

"Demon King?" Mark mused. "How curious..."

"...yeah, five great warriors defeated him...blah, blah...they formed five countries, Renais, Frelia, Grado, Jehenna, Rausten. Up here we have a Merchant country formed a few decades ago." Legault jabbed out each location on the faded parchment.

"Alright...?"

"Now, last month, Grado suddenly attacks Renais out of nowhere. There haven't been any serious wars in generations, the royal heirs were very close friends actually. Caught off guard, Renais was taken quickly and their king, Fado, was killed. The princess, Erika, escaped. Now they're attacking Frelia. The Emperor of Grado, Vigarde, who everyone says is a very gentle man is suddenly ordering executions and brutal tactics all of a sudden. The Three Generals of Grado have suddenly expanded to six, the newer ones are disliked by the people as they are equally cruel as the new regime."

"Any word about dragons?"

"There's been talk of a high leveled Sage traveling looking for the 'Great Dragon'. From what I heard, he's from Caer Pelyn, a highly secluded village in the mountains."

Mark bit on his thumbnail thoughtfully. The other occupants remained silent, waiting for his conclusion.

"...We're going to assume this 'Great Dragon' is benevolent for now. Probably a protector of the village, like Arcadia. The terrain is right for it. We should find this sage and assist in the search for now. We need to know if there are anymore survivours of the Scouring over here. Do you have a name?"

"...No. He has silver hair and a worn pale green cloak, that's all I've been able to gather. Nothing concrete on the Dragon either, though the Sage's also said to be looking for an Indigo haired girl. It could be two different people but it also could mean that the girl is the dragon."

"Last sighting?"

Legault hovered over the map again, before jabbing his finger at a spot on the border of Grado and Renais.

"Here in Serafew. No other sightings yet."

Mark muttered to himself a little bit before leaning forward and tapping his finger further down on the map at the desert region of Jehenna.

"He will try here next. It's currently away from fighting and will spread his search pattern for maximum effectiveness."

The other four nodded, accepting their new mission.

"Now, for the matter of transport...I will assume Grado holds the mass Wyvern population? They have the mountains for it."

"Yes." Heath nodded. "The stables in this town are well equipped to house a large amount of Wyverns passing through."

"Hyperion cannot carry all of us. I want our pace to be a quick as possible. It does not make sense to buy a Wyvern, too many questions will be asked. Do you know the exact position of the battlefield?"

"No, but my guess is it's around...here." Heath pointed again.

"We will have to skirt past the edge then and see if we can find a riderless Wyvern. Two horses will have to do for now. Legault, you'll get to ride with Heath as usual. Nino, with Jaffar. I'll carry supplies. We move out in the morning. Legault, get us supplies and horses."

"Alright Milord Tactician!" The lilac haired thief sprang to his feet and did a dramatic bow. "Your wish is my command!"

"Legault..." Heath sighed in exasperation, shaking his head.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I wrote flirty Legault too well. It seemed a little forced to me, but he wouldn't be Legault if he didn't sexually harass Heath at least once.
> 
> Trying to write Mark as both really flimsy yet really strong willed is a bit hard. It's a fine balance between making him floppy and pathetic or making him too strong. (Dragons are supposed to be flimsy when human anyway)
> 
> If any parallels are drawn to my writing of Minato Arisato, in my defense I say this, I am a particularly flimsy human and enjoy making my characters just as flimsy so that I can make them overcome problems even with the handicaps I add to them.


	4. The Dragon Chained to the Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory of Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, I didn't realize I never cleared this up, but Black dragons aren't some Mary Sue dragon species I made up. I was running off FE9-10's Laguz dragon races. Where the Black dragons are the royalty that the other dragons defer to (As in there's one royal family, maybe 4 members) and there are Red Dragons (physical type) and White dragons (magic type) who make up the rest of their population.
> 
> If any of this is wrong, it's been a while since I played FE10. And even when I played, FE10 the laguz were always difficult to use with their transformation wait time. They had to wait a few turns (while a weak, squishy unit) until a transformation gauge filled up before they could turn into their powerful and useful animal form. So I got to be particularly fond of Ranulf(a cat Laguz) whenever I had to use one because his gauge took the least time and he was wickedly fast. Ultimately, using the royal units(Lion, Black dragon, Raven king, Hawk King) was always the better idea if you needed a Laguz because they had no charge time at all and could stay transformed permanently. Dragons had pretty good passive abilities, like boosting the nearby allies stats while in range but they somehow picked up a weird thunder magic allergy in these games. Each different colour boosted different things. I remember Kurthnaga(The Royal Black dragon you get) being particularly good at beefing defense so that people didn't die.
> 
> All this reminiscing makes me wanna go dig up Radiant Dawn and play it again. It was a little confusing to me in the first run through since I never played the first one (Path of Radiance) but as I went on I picked up the plot and started to adore the characters. Soren, that snarky little pessimistic half-dragon tactician was my favourite(as a character and a unit)(Good lord, I've never seen a 'squishy' mage dodge so much and kill so many people, for you see, his starting skill Adept sometimes allows him to hit somebody before they hit him when they attack)(Preemptive striking!)(I don't know what the trigger rate for Adept is, but let's just say it was high)(He was also how I found out about the third promotion tier, 'cuz he kept killing people and I was preparing to be sad and bench him when he inevitably maxed out his lvl but he hit 20 and bam I suddenly had an Archsage and it was fantastic) and that's basically what triggered this fic.
> 
> I had planned for the 'new world' that the dragons crossed over to be Tellius. (FE9-10's world)

X

(Somebody does get their wrists slit in this, I dunno if that needs a warning or something?)

X

The Dragon chained to the Gate

Mark would like to say his duty was heroic.

He was the fierce guardian that protected the Dragon's Gate from anybody who attempted to use it to cross dimensions. He was all that stood between the rest of the dragons and the world of Elibe. Even though the Gate could only be opened by a dragon, Mark firmly believed that some dragons hadn't made it through. There was always a chance of one of them being forced to open the gate.

He'd like to say that it was a sworn and noble duty passed down through his family for generations.

He'd even like to say that he bravely volunteered amidst the worst of the war to stay behind.

The truth is far less bright.

And though now, Mark performs his duties as well as he can, for it is really all he has left, in the beginning he was full of bitterness and hate.

Because, in truth, he neither volunteered for this duty or even was forgotten when the dragons went through.

He was an oddity, born to two dark red fire dragons a few years before the Scouring was even a rumble of dissent. And despite his parent's colours, he had been born the pitch black of the Royal dragons, with only red edging of his wings to hint at his true parentage. His parents had been very confused but as they both carried black edging and stripes of their own, they put it down to recessive genes aligning just right or a bit of throwback genes from a distant black dragon ancestor.

The Black dragons were the royalty of the dragon world, terrifyingly powerful but few. They were highly regarded by the rest of the dragon tribes, fire(red) and ice(white) dragons being the most plentiful. Divine dragons had standing nearly on par with the black but were more spiritual leaders. They stood as the counterparts of the Blacks, keeping their generally aggressive approach in check.

The rest of the dragons however saw his colour as sacrilege and an abomination that a non-royal dragon was black. They cared little for him but that never meant much to Mark until his parents were killed early in the war and he was suddenly left with nothing and no one. They were one of the first dragons to fall to the human's new 'anti-dragon' weapons.

Heavy ballista, dangerous thunder magic and specialty blades.

The ruling class shoved him off to the side with a useless lordship but Mark could always feel their sleazy eyes on him, calculating how much he was worth to them and their cause.

The answer was simply, not much at all. He was too young to be of much use in the war but they kept him around for future breeding stock. After all, they may not like him, but fresh black dragon genes added into the already limited pool would be nothing but an asset in the future.

And eventually, he simply grew to be too much of a drain of resources and the moment he was capable of producing fire, no matter how small, he was sent out to fight.

Nobody used dragonstone those days, there was simply no need to remain locked in a human form to converse with humans anymore. It made one too vulnerable and no dragon wanted to hear what humans had to say anymore. Their betrayal had come as a horrible shock, the humans who had refused to turn on their draconic friends had been among the first victims of the bloody war.

Mark remembered the war with a distant sort of horror.

Of his throat always raw and dry from spitting fire. The constant throb of pain in his wings from dozens of arrows. His claws slick with blood. That _horrid, horrid_ taste in his mouth and the perpetual scent of burning flesh. The gnawing hunger deep in his belly, because chances to hunt were few among the skirmishes. No matter how desperately _hungry_ he was, there was little to eat and at the end of his rope, humans couldn't even be eaten because of their metal armour.

In human years, Mark guesses that he must have been fifteen.

He starved so often in those days that his juvenile growth spurt ground to a halt, leaving him as the smallest dragon in the army. Barely larger than a wyvern. Which, along with his dark scales made him perfect at ambushes and quick raids. Clandestine operations ordered by the Royal dragons themselves.

Above all the hunger and fire and death, he remembered Xan.

He remembered that huge hulking dork of a red dragon who had been his partner. Xan had been nearly a century older than him, more experienced and over twice his size. His effervescent cheer and optimism had help uplift his spirit in the dark and bloody times. The red dragon had taken him under his wing and had looked after him like a brother. He was the loud flaming distraction for Mark to slip by human patrols and strike at critical points. They spent decades living in harsh conditions together, curling up together at nights for warmth and hunting in shifts for what little food they could find. That kind of living in close quarters under extreme circumstances had forged a strong brotherly bond between them as neither of them had any other living family.

And then one day, they raided a route that had one of the Eight Generals guarding it. And that was that. They were met with firepower far over what any two dragons could, much less a pair of teenagers. They spat as much flames as was physically possible, jaws aching and chests cold, frantically scrabbling to find an opening to escape. When they finally managed it, clawing up into the sky after the archers were all dead, he remembered sprinting away quickly, his tiny frame much faster than the more heavily armoured red dragon. He remembered eagerly chattering at the perceived victory as Xan followed slowly.

And then there was a thundering crash as the world went a blinding white.

Mark could remember the resounding silence after the thunder of Aureola had struck down Xan with a very real terror that haunted him years later and still made him flinch away from Lucius when he used it, even if the man couldn't hurt a fly. The optimistic chatterbox, his _brother_ , his _friend_ , his _family_ eternally silenced, cut off mid-sentence. The last scolding left unfinished. His massive frame crumpling out of the air, his eyes already dull and spirit fled. It rang like despair deep in his bones. The flame of terror and horror bringing tears to his eyes and bile rising in his throat. It ached like a deep and mortal wound in his soul.

It burned like rage, turning his vision red.

He rushed her, he knew he did. Absolute fury dying his thought processes to pure murder.

_killkillkillkillIWANTYOURBLOOD_

The crash of the mighty holy spell thundered around his ears as he flew fast, faster and faster still. Far too fast for her spells to catch. All the holy power in the world couldn't bring him down if it couldn't connect. He threw himself at her, but the closer he got, the harder it was to dodge. He couldn't advance and she couldn't hit him. He burned out his rage on her, wings straining with his maneuvers, until all there was left was an empty hollow in his chest.

He finally stopped, two hours later.

Perched on a mountain ridge, out of range of her nuke, he just stared at her. A frail human dressed all in white but with an iron conviction in her eyes. His dulled eyes, faded pale to the pink of dawn, slide from Xan's murderer to his body. It lay within her attack range, and he was far too small to carry the corpse away from human desecration.

He closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out the bloody and shattered form and keeping the image of his smiling and laughing brother in his mind. With numb resignation he took to wing again, catching a good gust of wind to give him the height he wanted. At the peak of his thermal, with the tattered human embankment a mere smudge on the landscape, he folded his wings. He tucked in his limbs, half-turned in the air, straightened up his tail and plummeted straight down. The wind shrieked across his wings sails in a heraldry of his rage.

But there was no rage anymore.

Just numbness.

For the tiniest second, Mark though about not opening his wings at all.

But the moment passed as the ground loomed closer.

He tilted his dive and angled himself. The Saint General looked to be preparing another Aureola, he could feel the gathering magic humming in his teeth. He rumbled, concentrating all the fire in his chest.

Xan's body slid into vision. Mark snapped open his wings and spat all the fire left in his gut, forcing all his magic in one concentrated burst. A pale blue fireball splashed against the body but Mark was already gone, sweeping out of range with his momentum, feeling the blaze of ozone warm against his tail. He circled around, solemnly watching as the splintered forest around Xan alit as the perfect pyre for a fireproof dragon.

It didn't take long for Xan's remaining magic, still lingering at the sudden death, to alight. The flames finally burned blue, cremating him from the inside. After that, it only took a few minutes for Xan's body to be reduced to dust. Mark lingered a moment more, pale rose eyes blankly staring at the startled saint, before he turned northward, heading for the nearest human city.

He had a sudden, detached desire to see red.

Whether fire or blood, he was not particularly fussy as to which.

Mark flew, subdued and aching, the burn of his own injuries and strained muscles barely registering. The memory of his fallen brother-in-arms gracelessly sprawled on the ground burned into his memory. He became detached from his actions, uncaring of the living beings that fell before him and the blood that splattered the ground indiscriminately, whether his own or the human's. The colour of his world was grayscale, lit up by the splashes of scarlet that remained him of Xan. The last of his juvenile innocence, already cracked and crumbling, finally shattered to nothingness. Following Xan to the grave.

And yet Mark still lived.

With several blackened scales and a black webbed scar to account for the fringes of the holy nuke that had clipped him.

Mark flew alone after that, no other dragon wanted to accompany him and he was less than amiable towards any who tried. A small black shadow in the night, mercilessly killing as many humans as he could in revenge. As he was drenched in more and more blood, the hollowness in his chest never went away.

Eventually he came to the dull realization that nothing he did, no matter how much humans he killed in vengeance, nothing would bring Xan back. At that point, his days descended into a dull haze of monotony. The dragon elders seemed almost disappointed when he returned from his blood rage, to receive new orders.

It was pure survival in those days, the humans seeking to wipe out all dragons and the dragons desperately fighting back. Like in all wars, morals were quickly throw out the window in hopes of gaining any advantage over the other side.

But then came the great imbalance, caused by the Eight Generals and their powerful divine weapons being used all at once, the laws of physics warped and reality protested. To deal with the backlash of the powerful energies, the Ending Winter struck across the land, sapping the potential magic energy out of the world. Both the dragons and the divine weapons lost a huge chunk of their powers.

It was like dying and pain and not being able to fit into your own skin anymore.

It burned like heavy exhaustion and lost freedom and fatal, _fatal_ weakness.

In the end, Mark had been left lying naked in the mud, in a terrifyingly weak form of flesh instead of armoured scales. The older dragons, still doggedly holding onto their power as it trickled away, swept through the continent, snatching up their terrified kin and _fleeing_ south towards the Dread Isle.

One of the Generals had stolen their sacred place out from under them and performed heinous dark magic rituals there. However, no matter how strong the general was, he was still lying on the main battlefield, weeks away by horse and by sea. The dragons, on their swiftest wings all fled to the Dragon's Gate that rested on the isle to decide what their next step would be now that they as a race were all but powerless.

The dragonstones, which had been used before to limit a dragon's power enough to turn them into a human was now being used as the only way a dragon could return to their true form.

They were lost and confused and powerless, with their power draining irreversibly away second by second. In the end, it was unanimously decided that dragonkind as a whole would concede defeat to the humans and retreat through the Gate to find a dimension that could still support them.

But the Gate was crumbled and old and the heavy dark magic of Bramimond had irreversibly corrupted the mechanism. Accustomed to the taste of blood, the magic greedily demanded more of it be spilled before it would grant the dragons' desire and open a path to a new home.

Mark was almost relieved when the dragons told him that he was to be the sacrifice to open it. His royal blood would carry more Quintessence than any other kind of dragon and they didn't want to risk any of the legitimate Royal dragons.

He was tired.

Many humans had fallen under his breath and claws and he had lost friends and family to the humans in turn. The endless cycle of death was exhausting and he was very willing to just _stop_.

There was no fuss or ceremony. The moment they figured out exactly what was needed to open the Gate they brought him forward. He remembered the moment clearly, no matter how many centuries it had been.

The air was cool and damp with heavy fog. Rough torches burned along the walls in a pale mockery of the fire they once commanded, throwing cackling shadows over the halls. The tiles had been oddly rough to his tender new feet. He remembered making eye contact with the black dragon who he would've been forced to mate to, and he remembers them looking away. And finally he was at the gate, the remaining dragons silently following.

And then then two dragons, Mark recalled them clearing, the picture of his executioners burned into his memory. A tall grim, red dragon and a shorter, scarred white dragon. Their grips were fire and ice as they held him by the wrists and pressed his hands against the gate. There was a moment, a harsh clear moment. With his hands against cold stone, his heart full of sin and a body full of scars.

He wished it hadn't come to this.

He wished his parents hadn't died in a salvo of shrapnel and ballista arrows. He wished his kin hadn't been shot down, Xan hadn't had to die like that. He wished this war had never happened, that he wouldn't have had to kill thousands of humans. And in the depths of his heart, some part of him cried out at the injustice of it all.

The pair raised two large pieces of shrapnel dug out of one of the injured dragons, silver metal fragments of a ballista arrowhead. They were crude and covered with enough filth to certainly cause an infection.

With a quick, careless motion they slit his wrists.

Initially, it stung sharply but that quickly faded to a slight ache as the other dragons began to pour Quintesessence into the Gate, using his body as a medium.

It was pleasant at first. Causing the pain in his wrists to fade and his body to feel light.

The supercharged blood splashed against the Gate and it drank up the offering eagerly.

But then his blood kept flowing and the energy kept crashing through him.

Again, and again and again and again.

Like a rock along a shoreline, the waves kept pounding and eroding at his being. And like that rock, he couldn't move away from the force destroying him. All he could do was stand up and take it.

The Gate opened, a swirling purple dimensional Gateway to a new home blooming beneath his fingertips. If the two guards hadn't held him up he would've fallen face first through the portal. For a second, in his mind's eye, he could see wide grassy plains, tall mountains and most importantly, air filled with magic untainted by the Ending Winter.

In the next moment, he was gone in pain.

Rip-roaring, mind-shattering, nerve-shorting pain. So powerful and so intense that he couldn't even black out. The pain reaching into the darkness to burn through him there.

After that, his memory was hazy and black.

_Ah,_

He thought at a brief ebb in the flow.

_This_

_Is_

_how_

_I_

_die_

He woke up amidst dust and long dried blood and heavy vines wrapped around his fallen body. His body was stiff and heavy with long sleep but he was bursting with energy. The drained and tired feeling that had been a heavy constant since the Ending Winter was all but gone. His body settled into the new shape and atmosphere during his time unconscious. As an act of mercy, someone had left a dragonstone behind for him in case he survived the ritual. He had never been taught how to use one which made it a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

He had been abandoned, thrown away by his people the moment he was of no further use. He wasn't even surprised or horrified by the final betrayal. His heart no longer had any energy to care but it somehow still didn't stop the unwilling bitterness that welled up in his heart at this final abandonment by his kin. If there were any dragons left in Elibe, and he was certain not all of them made it to the gate, he was certain he was the last black dragon. After all, the royalty had been the first calling the retreat, there was no chance any of them had gotten left behind.

Left as the last black dragon in all of Elibe,

Mark finally smiled.

He was free.

_This of course lasted until he reached civilization (many years after he awoke as he tried to figure out how to transform and then tried to convince himself to leave his self-appointed guard post) and discovered what a thorough mess of a world humankind had created. The beautiful Utopia of dragons and humans that he could barely remember was a distant dream. Dragons themselves were seen as nothing but myth and legend as humanity's short lived memory forgot the massive beings they had once lived with. Murder and banditry and slavery and war abounded as with a lack of a common enemy, humanity turned on itself._

_He had slept for six hundred years, hibernating, in the manner that all dragons can, his aging slowed down even further than its normally glacial rate._

_The years had passed quickly as he traveled anonymously among humans, learning their habits and culture and knowledge but only for short bursts of time. He always quickly returned to the Gate, it made him very nervous to leave it for long. Every year, he would transform and fly over the continent, searching for any sign of dragons who had been left behind._

_He eventually learnt how to use the dragonstone to suppress his power even further to cause his telltale scarlet eyes to fade to a tawny gold, that while still exotic, was less likely to get him hanged as a demon or witch. The beautiful chunk of blue stone absorbed his power like an external mana battery to give him a big enough boost to return to his former draconic form. Thankfully, after six hundred years of charging and his own sparse use, the stone in question had enough energy for him to remain in his true for nearly three decades straight._

_And then, a few years shy of a thousand, close to the Nanbata Desert he smelt the powdery flowery smell of a Divine Dragon._

_He descended to walk the earth for the first time in twenty years._

_...And proceeded to get lost for the next six years_

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark has a poor sense of direction, how do you think he got into the middle of the Plains.
> 
> Okay, I hold no responsibility for Mark's backstory. I had maybe the first five lines planned and boy did he take it and run with it. Like wow, dunno what I was expecting but it really wasn't that, got a bit too dark with his guardianship. I always wrote it as a duty he proudly upheld and as an actual title instead of the dirty tarnished duty he gave himself from the ashes of his entire race leaving him behind. The tenses are all over the place, see-sawing between past and present.
> 
> Well There was no way Mark's story was going to be good anyway. For him to be Gate guardian he must have been involved in the war. I also didn't want to make him actually a Royal, cause then why would he have been left behind when there are so few Blacks already. (well that sounded slightly racist) He also needed a title since I had him declare himself Lord Marken Blackwood so dramatically in the first chapter.
> 
> Also I made the generic association of red dragons being fire dragons and the white being ice to make a crossover jump to Tellius's Laguz dragons possible.

**Author's Note:**

> (Spoilers, he lives)
> 
> Yeah, I'm not that cruel to just kill off my fluffy and hopeless tactician.
> 
> As you can probably tell, my favourite unit is Heath, the wonderful flying tank that he is. Aside from the fact he rides what is basically a DRAGON (Yes I know Hyperion is technically a wyvern)(I was like, ten, did you think I cared), he was the guy who was the cause my favouritism of wyvern knights, I care not for arrows (or lightning? The new games have weird dragon weaknesses), I just leveled them up until I could throw them at mobs and sit back and laugh as they killed everything. 
> 
> I can't remember how his story ended after the end of the game but I remember I hated it and no Social Links/Supports I tried made it any happier, that happened to a lot of my favourite characters in FE7.
> 
> So this will be a collection of fix-its and sequels to the butchering canon did to my first FE units.


End file.
